


A Month That Brings Just Ice

by sonicSymphony



Series: Aquarius [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Humanstuck, Mentions of attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonicSymphony/pseuds/sonicSymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tomorrow can't come soon enough. Getting out of this hellhole has been your main priority ever since you got shipped here a month ago, and all you want to do is eat some decent food, take a scalding shower, and see Fef. In your humble opinion, that isn't too much to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Month That Brings Just Ice

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a line in the Regina Spektor song _Aquarius_. This is my first time writing for Homestuck, as well as my first time trying out second person as a writing style. I'll gladly take any criticism you can give. Also, formatting on this site is weird. Please tell me if anything is off.
> 
> Edit: I changed the summary, because the old one sucks. This one does too, but hey, I tired.

The stale air of your room is almost suffocating. You probably should’ve been used to the stuffiness by now, since you’d been in the facility for a month, but it was comforting you would never be able to get used to it because you are leaving tomorrow. A month in rehab for one measly suicide attempt was a bit much, you think, especially since you’d never hurt anyone but yourself. However, your father seemed firm about you spending your entire three month sentence there, though he did become lax after you managed to convince him that being there was making it all worse. 

Yes, you’d stop cutting. No, you wouldn’t get involved with drugs or alcohol (you’d seen what it had done to Cronus, though he _was_ fucked up to begin with). Yes, swallowing a whole bottle of pills was going to be a one-time thing. No, Dad, it wasn’t because you’re never home. It was a lot of things.

These promises were somewhat empty, but they were good enough for dear old Dad. He’d be driving down to Miami to get you tomorrow, which is more than you’d expected from him; you thought that you’d have to take a bus back after he scanned a shit ton of paperwork. It would’ve been a hot and sticky ride, especially in the humid Florida summer.

Even though the weather is a bit uncomfortable, you’re glad it’s summer; a lot less people heard about what you did. Only three people outside your family know—friends that couldn’t keep their noses out of your business—and you would like to keep it that way for the time being. You’d been IMing them all on Skype, complaining about shitty food and too nice psychiatrists, though Karkat and Kanaya always danced around you like you were suddenly turned into a porcelain doll that was half broken already (neither of them wanted to be responsible for finishing the job). You hadn’t spoken to anyone face-to-face except for Feferi. You should call her now, actually.

Sliding the laptop out of your backpack, you put it on your lap, just where the name of the object implies it should go. Opening the Macbook blinds you momentarily, the light of it filling the dark room. After knocking the brightness down a few pegs, you open Skype and hit the video chat option. 

Usually you’d fix your hair first, but you only got back from group therapy half an hour ago and haven’t gotten undressed. It’s still a sight for sore eyes; you ran out of hair gel two days ago, and your blond roots are beginning to show under the vivid violet streak at the peak of your forehead. You know Fef gives no fucks whatsoever about what state your hair is in, but you still want to look nice for her.

She answers your call after about five seconds of the annoying bubbly dial tone, and she grins at you with a wave. “Still coming home tomorrow?” After a nod, she bounces in her chair a bit. “I’m so EXCITED! I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” you say in a mellower tone, one corner of your mouth tugging up a bit as your stomach clenches. God, she’s so fucking gorgeous it hurts sometimes. “Kar’s caught me up on most of the local drama, but what have you Peixeses been up to during my absence? Glenys still having trouble with her hip?”

“It’s gotten a bit better,” she says. Her grandmother had a hip replacement a few months back after a few years of it bothering her. “She’s been able to take the stairs, but she usually just uses the elevator. It’s better, anyway.” You’re about to say something but then her eyes flicker up over her webcam as somebody enters her room. “Oh, come say hi!”

You’re expecting Glenys, but Meenah crouches down next to her sister, pulling over a chair that was over near the wall. “Sup, little Ampora?” she asks. “Heard you’re coming home tomorrow. You better come see us. Grandma’s making fried mackerel.”

“Hey, Meen,” you say. “Yeah, I’ll drop by. Sounds great. When d’you head back to school?”

“Next week,” she answers. “Until then, I’ll continue to be a public fuckin nuisance. You better get ready, boy, because imma unleash hell.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “I’m assuming by ‘unleash hell’ you mean you’re going to torment innocent tourists.”

“Yup.”

“Sounds _amazin’_.”

“Bye, Meenah!” Fef says, a sudden dismissal. “Unless there was something you actually _needed_.”

“Nah, just wanted to say hey to my little bro,” she says, giving the camera a dangerous smile that was meant to petrify prey more than to look pretty. “See ya later.”

“Bye,” you say, and she goes off frame. The door shuts a second later. “So it seems she’s doing well. I have to admit I wanna join her plight to annoy tourists. Fuckers are always leaving pollution on our beach.”

“Be nice,” she chastises, rolling her eyes. “By the way, she brought you a UF hoodie. It’s blue with a huge ass gator on the front. Seeing as you’re such a _huge_ sports fan and enjoy tacky clothing, I’m sure you’ll wear it with pride.”

“Ugh, gross,” you say, scrunching up your face, “but at least it’s free. If I’d known that trying to kill myself would get me pity gifts, I would’ve tried it a long time ago.”

“Eridan,” she says, her tone going serious, “please don’t say things like that.”

You’re about to say that she says things like that all the time in a more joking manner when _her_ disability is involved, but you keep your mouth shut; she doesn’t like it when you point out her double standards. “But free stuff!" 

She just stares at you disapprovingly, so you sigh, propping your face up in your hand. Glancing at the clock, you see that it’s nearly eight, which is when they switch off the wifi. You knew from the start that this was going to be a short call, but you don’t want to let her go yet. She seems to notice the time too, and wilts a bit.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” you say, giving her a small smile. She’s the only one who can get you to do anything but smirk and scowl, and you know she revels in that. Your secret smiles, all for her.

“I love you,” she says, grinning in an almost bittersweet way. You always feel kind of uncomfortable when she says it, but that’s coupled with butterflies fluttering around in your stomach and you like to hear the reassurance, especially now. She loves you. She isn’t going to drop you on the curb like last week’s garbage. “I can’t wait to see you. What time will you be back?”

“Probably around five,” and before you can say a proper goodbye, the video freezes and you get a popup about a connection issue. 8:01pm stares at you blankly form the top right corner of your screen, and you sigh and open up Steam.

You spend a few mindless hours playing Black Ops and L4D2, shooting up soldiers and zombies that dare attack you. If you were playing online you’d be dominating. Mindless video games are exactly what you needed to keep yourself from getting nervous about going home tomorrow, and you play until it’s technically morning and your eyes are drooping. After the Dark Carnival campaign is done, you shut down your computer and settle into bed.

 

* * *

 

Your dad has hugged you a grand total of twice since your mother’s funeral a few years back: once when you were getting checked into rehab, and again now. He’s an awkward hugger, holding on either too loose or too tight and not meeting your eyes afterward. He tries to be a good father, you know he does, but he’s always on location up in Kings Bay and he enjoys the military more than he’s ever enjoyed you. However, you can’t really blame him because you wouldn’t enjoy you either.

“You feeling better, chief?” he questions, clapping you hard on the shoulder. “Did being here help you out?”

“Yeah,” you say, lying outright, though the next thing you say is the complete truth. “I’m more than ready to go home.”

Before you leave, he signs a lot of paperwork and thanks the personnel. Dad leads you out with an arm around your shoulder, dragging your suitcase behind him. Your backpack containing your computer and other necessities is settled between your shoulder blades. For once, the sight of his old black Tahoe, lifted suspension and grates over the headlights, is a comforting one.

You don’t talk to him for most of the five-hour drive back home, though there is a sparring conversation about current military technology. An interest in the military is one of the only things you two have in common, and he’d wanted you to try to enlist even though your eyesight is too bad. You’d actually aspired to go into the navy for a really long time, but you eventually got over it.

The family bonding thing that he’s going for (even in this sparing exchange you can tell he’s trying to build a bridge of some sort, though you have no idea why it’s taken him this long to actually _try_ ) isn’t going to work unless it turns out he’s driving you to a hunting lodge; the only time you and dear old Dad have any sort of happiness in each other’s presence is when you’re “bonding” over killing things. Fishing has this effect too. Sadly, you haven’t done any of this with him since last summer. Maybe he’s taken some time off of work to try to remedy the relationship between you two, though you really doubt it; he probably went to enough trouble just trying to get today.

It’s evening by the time you pull into your driveway. The house is as big and well kept as usual, and you pull up next to your navy blue Taurus. A knot in your chest unclenches when you see that Cronus’s pick up truck isn’t present. You need at least an hour of mental preparation before you can see him again.

Once all your stuff is unloaded, you text Feferi to tell her you’re home. Almost instantly, she responds, _Then get over )(ere! Dinner’ll be ready in about an )(our_. You tell her that you have to shower first, since you’re still in sweats and a V neck from the ride up and your hair is flopping everywhere, to which she replies, _You’re suc)( a priss! 38P_  

It feels amazing to be in a bathroom where you can turn the water up to boiling and stand under the spray for as long as you want. Some of the tension in your back uncoils, and even though you get some fancy shampoo in your eye, you exit the shower more relaxed than you’ve been in weeks. The steam of the bathroom fogged up your glasses, so you wipe the lenses on a corner of the towel wrapped around your hips before settling them on your nose and rummaging around under the counter for your blow-drier.

About forty minutes later, you’re walking into the kitchen and grabbing your keys off a hook on the wall. You stop for a moment to admire yourself in the floor-length mirror hanging up in the foyer: your upper half looks fantastic, with a violet and white plaid button up fitted perfectly to your torso, sleeves rolled up to your elbows. Some concealer covered up a spot of acne that popped up on your chin. You styled your hair to perfection, getting the wavy, windswept look that you’re always going for. Dye is the only thing you need; the bit of dirty blond at the front of your widow’s peak throws off the purple. You try not to look at your legs, because you hate how they look in shorts since they’re so much hairier than the rest of you. They’re enclosed in skinny jeans most of the time, but Fef always tells you that you’re going to get heatstroke from walking around in 100+ degree weather in jeans. That said, you only ever wear cargo shorts over to her house where only the Peixeses see them. 

Just as you’re about to go out the door, your dad stops you. “Eridan, you just got home,” he says sternly, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go out yet. I thought maybe we could order takeout or something. Watch a movie.” The _try to be a better father_ is silent.

“But Fef’s family invited me over for dinner,” you whine. You realize that is no way to get him to let you go, so you say, “Going over there will make me really, _really_ happy.”

You’re laying it on a bit thick, but he cracks anyway. “Be home before midnight, okay?” he says, but you’re already walking out the door and heading towards the garage. Fef lives maybe a quarter of a mile away within the same neighborhood, but you don’t really feel like walking so you get your violet Vespa out of the garage. Your baby needs a new coat of wax and you do your best to get the thin layer of dust off that resulted from not being used for a month before setting off.

It takes maybe a minute to arrive. The Peixes mansion is the biggest house in the entire development, and is near the back to be more secluded. You park your scooter next to the large fountain in the center of the wrap-around driveway and head up the brick steps to the door.

You’re raising your fist to knock when the door flies open. Feferi is sitting in the threshold, beaming at you with her arms up, and you swoop down and pluck her out of her wheelchair, crushing her to you as her arms wrap around your neck and pull you even closer. Her dangling toes scrape your shins, tickling them lightly but you don’t care, because she’s here pressed against you and you missed her _so_ much. 

Kicking the chair out of the way, you manage to get inside and close the front door. The smell of fried fish assaults your nostrils, and _God_ you have missed Fef’s grandmother’s cooking. “Smells great,” you murmur into her ear, and she clutches you tighter.

“I missed you, you pompous prick,” she says into your shoulder. The next line is much quieter, but you hear it nevertheless. “Never do that to me again.”

It sounds like she might cry, and if she starts crying you will too, so you carry her into the sitting room and plop down on the couch, still huddling her in your arms. She smells just like she always has—like the beach and chlorine and a hint of strawberry from her shampoo, and _fuck_ you’ve missed her so much. Skyping her almost daily wasn’t nearly enough.

“I’m joining in on this fuckin hug fest,” someone says roughly from above you, and that’s all the warning you have. Meenah comes in from behind the couch, slamming into your back and pushing you forward to create a Peixes-Ampora sandwich. 

“I thought you were too tough for this shit, Meen,” you say, speech muffled by Fef’s hair in your mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” she growls, giving you one last squeeze before relinquishing you and going to fetch Feferi’s wheelchair. “Dinner’ll be ready in half an hour, and gramma’s upstairs making herself look pretty. You need to lower your standards, Ampora, before you turn every meal into a fuckin state dinner.”

“It’s not my fault I have such good fashion sense,” you call after her, and she yells back, “And you wonder why everyone you’ve come into contact with thinks you’re gay!” 

Feferi scoots off your laps and grabs your shoulders, looking you up and down like she’s deciding whether or not you’re worth putting a down payment on. Her eyes linger on your forearms, checking the faint scars that line them; you can almost hear her think, _Good, no new ones_. She stops for good at your face. “You’ve lost weight,” she murmurs. It’s true that your face lost some bulk, as did the rest of you (for the first time since you were ten, you can count most of your ribs), but you’ve only dropped eleven pounds in the last month or so. The anorexics at rehab looked a lot worse.

“I’m sure I’ll gain it all back soon,” you say with a smirk, “especially if I eat over here. I can’t refuse Glenys’s cooking.” Picky eating was one of your defining character traits as a child (and even now, some would argue), but you would eat almost _anything_ Glenys Peixes whipped up. Just thinking about eating her food makes you want to chug a Faygo and start sprouting bullshit about miracles.

The clicking of heels on tile breaks your conversation. Turning, you see a short old woman barreling towards you, arms out. “There’s my boy!” she calls before embracing you, trapping your arms to your sides. You chuckle a bit, sounding awkward and breathy. “Oh, Eridan, I can feel your ribs! You’re going to gain five pounds _right_ now, come with me, I’ve got some leftover cookie dough from the batch I put in the oven.”

“Snickerdoodles?” you ask hopefully.

“Snickerdoodles,” she affirms before releasing you and kissing your cheek, then giving it a firm pat. “It hasn’t been the same without you, kid. Don’t go anywhere anytime soon." 

“Yeah, sure,” you say. She squints at you behind her glasses, and you reach up and scratch the back for your neck and look away. You don’t like being scrutinized, even though you know she isn’t judging you. _Real_ family doesn’t do that sort of thing.

Meenah has disappeared, though she did bring Fef’s chair back into the room before she absconded, so the three of you head to the kitchen. “You just missed my daughter,” Glenys sighs as she rummages in the dishwasher for spoons. “She visited for a good two weeks, but you know Cordelia, always busy up in DC. I told her about what happened, and she sends her well wishes.” She hands you a spoon.

It’s the first time anyone’s mentioned your little stunt, even this indirectly, and it kinda rubs you the wrong way. You don’t know if that’s because you don’t want to talk about it or if you’re ashamed of what you tried to do; upon closer examination, you may come to realize that a reluctance to discuss it stems from a mixture of the two, but since you don’t like thinking about it you shove the entire topic from your mind. “Tell her I said thank you.”

The snickerdoodle batter is heavenly. You and Fef sit at the small table in the corner of the kitchen, shoveling spoonful after spoonful into your mouths as Glenys chatters on about the hellish Florida weather, her spice garden, and other miscellaneous topics that flit in and out of her head. Soon she takes the bowl away because dinner’s almost ready, and as soon as she’s about to start scooping the leftover batter into the garbage, Meenah swoops in and saves it, coming from nowhere. You swear this chick’s a fuckin ninja.

At the same time, something hits you in the side of the face. It falls into your lap, and you figure it’s the sweatshirt Fef told you about last night, but it’s not blue like she told you—it’s orange _, gawdy fucking orange_ like puked up cheddar cheese and there is _no way in **hell**_ you’re ever wearing this. The only plus side is the Gator logo is a bit smaller than you were expecting.

You toss it onto your shoulder, and when you look away from the atrocity, Meenah is staring at you, chowing down on the cookie dough with the grace and manners of a ravenous great white shark, sitting on the counter next to the oven. “Put it on.”

“No.”

She quirks a pierced eyebrow. “That wasn’t a fuckin request. Don the sweater, bitch.”

You’re about to snark her, but then Fef leans over the table towards you and murmurs, “Eridan, she’s by the cutlery drawer. Do you _really_ want to do this?”

Gulping, you slide the sweatshirt over your head, being very careful to not mess up your hair when you do so. It’s at least three sizes too big and God, the orange is even worse when it’s actually _on_ your body. Meenah cackles around a mouthful of cookie dough. You hope she chokes on it.

It wouldn’t have fit when you weighed ten pounds more, and it doesn’t fit now; the garish trash bag you’re wearing has no right to be called an actual article of clothing. Fef says, “The orange looks nice with your streak,” but it sounds like a question and you’re sure that nothing of the sort is true. She’s holding back laughter as well. Traitor. 

You shed the sweatshirt, tossing it onto the table. Meenah groans, “I didn’t have time to take a picture!” and hops off the counter, bowl in hand until Glenys snatches it away. “Don’t make fun of him,” she chastises.

Meenah rolls her eyes and makes a face. “I’m sure he’s secretly _loving_ the attention,” she moans, which is only a _little_ bit true.

“Shut the eff up, Meen,” you snap, careful to mind your cursing with grandma in the room. “I’ll rip your navel piercing out.” She gives you the finger.

The timer on the microwave dings, and Glenys treks across the kitchen to get the fish out of the fryer. “Meenah and Eridan, I need you to get the mashed potatoes out of the pot on the stove, the asparagus out of the refrigerator, and slice up a lemon. Divvy the tasks as you see fit. Feferi, set the table; I’ve got the plates out already, so we just need silverware and napkins. Go!”

When Glenys tells you to do something, you do it without hesitation. Soon, everything’s out and ready. After a month of food shittier than the swill the public school system feeds you, you’re ready for a meal that tastes like ambrosia of the gods.

…It’s better.

* * *

 

Later, you and Fef head upstairs to her room. You’re bloated from the food (you ate three plates) and you’re sure you’ve gained twenty pounds _already_ , though Glenys insists that you come back for meals at least four more times this week. Fef has a Tupperware of snickerdoodles on her lap for later, and she’s been snacking on one of them as you ride the elevator up. You have no idea where she puts all the food she eats; the combination of a fast metabolism and lots of swimming has given her a slim but strong physique, a true swimmer’s body from the waist up. Unlike you, she doesn’t even have to fuckin _try_.

Her room is exactly how you remember it: pink walls and dark wood flooring, with a huge fish tank dominating one wall (full of cuttlefish and other aquatic animals), her bass guitar leaning on a stand in the corner, a huge flat screen TV mounted across from her queen sized bed. Your eyes flit to examine her bulletin board, full to the brim with pictures. Many of them have you in them, and the majority of those are from your younger days, when you and Fef were running around at the beach or camped out in her backyard, looking up at the stars. A few are more recent—there’s a group shot from Karkat’s last birthday party, one of you and Fef at her mother’s local political rally from last time she ran for senator, and a shot of you in the—

“Fef, why is _this_ up here?!” you demand, storming across the room and yanking the picture down. It’s just you, sans glasses, looking in your bathroom mirror, hands coated in purple hair dye as you put your streak in for the first time. You’ve got splotches of the milky white colorant on your nose and cheek, and you’re in a baggy white T-shirt with a huge sailfish on the front. The worst part of it is the acne coating your cheeks; you’d broken out badly that week, your worst coating of pimples in history. “Hell, I didn’t even know you _took_ this!”

“Aww, Eridan, put it back up,” she says, wheeling over. “I love that shot! You look _adorable_.”

You sigh. “No.” You only comply when she runs over your toes. 

Muttering, you slink over to her bed and fall face down onto the comforter. It’s a darker pink than her walls and is the fluffiest shit that has ever touched your face. The mattress sinks next to you and that’s all the warning you have before she flops on top of you, knocking the air from your lungs. She props her chin on the back of your head. “There’s no need to behave like a mopey zoo lion, Eridan!”

“Ugh,” you groan. Rolling over is an effort, but you manage it. All you get in return is Fef’s chin colliding into your nose (you yelp and raise your hands to it, checking for blood, but they come back dry) before she tumbles down beside you. Silence stretches between you two until you break it by saying, “Fef?” 

“Hmm?”

“Glub.”

“Glub glub!” she giggles, turning and headbutting your shoulder. “What’s on your mind?”

You sigh, folding your arms behind your head as you do so. “I don’t know. Probably the same thing that’s on yours.”

This quiets her immediately. It’s the elephant in the room, and it’s relative to assume— _wait, shut up Eridan, this isn’t Legally Blonde!_ You know she’s wanted to talk to you about what you did for a while, and by her train of thought it wasn’t a good idea to interrogate you while you were in rehab, so here’s the golden opportunity.

She takes the bait. “I just think that it needs to be discussed.” Her voice is void of its usual bubbliness; the solemnity of it gives you chills. Fef’s not meant to sound like that.

“I…” you trail off, not exactly sure where you’re going with the sentence. You try again. “No.” There, simple. You pat yourself on the back for that one. 

Feferi huffs, propping herself up so she can look you in the eye. She’s blushing a bit, so it seems that she’s uncomfortable with the topic. You _should_ be able to sway her, at least for tonight. Before she can rebuke, you say, “Fef, I just… don’t think I’m ready yet. I promise we’ll talk about it eventually, but for now know that nothing’s changed, all right? I’m the exact same person I was a month ago.”

There’s a lull where she stares at you like she’s looking straight into your soul, and you shudder involuntarily. “It’s not a good thing that you’re still in the same mindset, Eridan. That means that you’re still,” she pauses, breaking her eye contact as she searches for a word, “ _unhappy_.”

You gulp, understanding exactly what she meant even though she didn’t say it outright. Perhaps you can put the rest of the conversation off if you’re able to reassure her of this one point. You’re not entirely sure if you’re about to speak the truth, but either way it needs to be said to her. Sitting up, you brace yourself up on your hands and glance to the floor before gazing back at her. She doesn’t meet your eyes. “Fef, I’m _not_ going to try again. I promise.”

She looks at you, biting her lip and _oh God are those tears in her eyes_? This is bad, this is _really_ bad; Fef doesn’t cry at _anything_ , because you’re the crier in your duet and you have to divert this train before it comes into the station. You thought you’d avoided the waterworks earlier, but perhaps it was just life luring you into a false sense of security, as always. “Why don’t I believe you?” she questions, a slight tremor in her tone.

It’s hard trying to talk to her about this; it’s hard and nobody understands. Not knowing what else to do, you take her hand and put it to your chest. “Feel this? The heartbeat? It ain’t gonna stop for a long time. Yeah, I did a stupid thing, and we’re not going to talk about that in depth right now, because I _really_ don’t want to, but I promise you have _nothing_ to worry about. Okay?”

Feferi leans forward, dropping her head onto your shoulder and curling her free hand around your back. “You’re incredibly melodramatic,” she says with a slightly watery laugh, “but okay.”

The moment doesn’t last long enough. After about half a minute, she starts to shift, so you scoot the two of you up against the headboard and place her next to you. Then you reach over to the nightstand to grab a PS3 controller and turn on Netflix. 

Hours later, you’re both incredibly drowsy and it’s ten minutes until your father’s curfew. Though he probably wouldn’t kill you if you were late, it’s best not to test your luck. “I’ve gotta go,” you murmur, leaning down to kiss the tip of her freckled nose, which reacts by scrunching up. It’s adorable, and you grin. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” she says, rubbing her eyes and smearing some mascara on her hand. “Love you.” 

Apparently this new protocol where she assures you of her affection wasn’t only a Skype thing. You’re not entirely sure about how you feel about it, but now that you’re only semi-lucid, the only thing it does is send your stomach aflutter. “I love you too,” you say, “so much.”

It’s good to finally get off your chest, even if she thinks you mean best-friend-love. She smiles at you and gestures at her dresser. “Before you go, could you grab me some pajamas? Second drawer from the bottom.”

Like a good little retainer, you fetch her a camisole and some shorts, tossing them to the bed. “Thanks,” she says. “Drive safe, and sleep well!”

“Goodnight.”

The rest of the house is dark, with Meenah and grandma most likely asleep. You tiptoe down the grand staircase into the foyer, and then you’re out the front door, locking it with a spare key that Glenys gave you a year or two back. _“If anything like what happened last April happens again and you need to come over but we’re not home,” she’d said, placing it in your palm, “use this. Put it on your key ring. You’re here more often than you are at your own house, anyway. We might as well make one of the empty bedrooms yours.”_

You think about that as you start up your Vespa. Maybe you could’ve told her about what was going on instead of trying to take a one-way train out of personhood; she cares about you, you know she does. That, however, isn’t the issue. Anyway, what’s past is past. That’s what the damn word means.

No matter the definition, it is seems that any ideas you had about the sentiments wouldn’t be staying away for long. Because when you pull onto your street, you see Cronus’s truck in the driveway.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't the main verse I want to work on, though I really do love a lot of the concepts I'm trying to build here. Right now my main focus is trying to get out something that's going to be a lot longer than this little thing here, and is not yet titled (I've been calling it Eugenicstuck because of what it's all about, but as you can tell from the title of this, I am absolutely horrible at constructing titles; it's my hamartia). I just wanted to post this to get a bit of feedback on my second person perspective and characterization, because I know it isn't nearly up to par but I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing wrong. 
> 
> Even if you don't comment, though, thank you very much for taking your time to read this! I'd be happy to answer any questions you may have (whether on here or at redweddingcrashers.tumblr.com), and as for whether or not this is going to be a proper series, the answer is a strong maybe. If anything, there'll just be some oneshots that get rid of any plotbunnies that come up. I have another 3,000 words of prequel written, but it's choppy and as I said earlier, I'm really trying to focus on getting Eugenicstuck off the ground. Also, the title of the series as a whole is probably going to change, because this one sucks and right now the only other thing I can think of is Humanstuck (it's called that on my computer), but _no_ , that would not be wise. 
> 
> Just a quick couple of things: I'm having a huge dilema with fish puns. I don't really think Feferi and Meenah would have reasons to use them, but they don't seem themselves without them. Also, Eridan still speaks with the accent he has in canon, but I didn't type it out. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


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